


S.B.D.

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Humor, Ministry of Magic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10141952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Someone is farting in Draco and Hermione’s tiny, shared, unventilated office, and Draco knows it’s not him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for Hawthorn & Vine's 2017 "If the Prompt Fits" fest. My prompt was submitted by UnseenLibrarian: In their tiny shared office, someone lets out a noxious fart, but both Draco and Hermione insist it wasn't them.
> 
> Beta Readers: Thanks to the wonderful eilonwy for her laughter and getting this back to me so promptly! All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Chapter One**

Late one rather strategic Friday in the middle of summer, Francesca Nutile, Head of Being Resources for the Ministry of Magic, sent out a memo. In it, she reminded employees on all levels, but particularly those in Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, that erecting henges in the hallways and lighting bonfires in the kitchenette bins were safety hazards, not appropriate Midsummer celebrations. She also reminded employees on all levels, but particularly Dina Vavome of the Magical Transport, that the Ministry dress code existed for a reason and that triage services were available near the Atrium’s security office for any and all wardrobe-related injuries.

At the bottom of the memo, below the point at which most veteran Ministry personnel had stopped reading, was a sentence that spelled doom for the mostly rookie Ministry personnel, who were still in the habit of reading every missive they received in its entirety.

 _Due to the unanticipated success of our Spring Spree, Levels Two, Four, and Five will be condensing operations, effective immediately_.

Anyone with half a brain could muddle the truth from beneath the business jargon: the full cubicles and cushy offices, which the new hires from the Ministry’s _Fall Frenzy_ and _Winter Whirl_ currently enjoyed, had an expiration date.

Francesca left it to the respective department heads to share the details with their underlings, and so, early the following Monday, Gawain Robards - the head of operations on Level Two - stood before them and read Ministry-approved verbiage from a scroll he had received just minutes before.

“The addition of new employees marks a time of excitement and energy we can all enjoy,” Robards read in a monotone, “and the rapid expansion of the insert department name here - oh, Department of Magical Law Enforcement - reflects an increase in the public’s trust. It is a testament to the exemplary effort of our employees and the steady serenity of our leadership teams.”

His blue eyes flashed up from beneath his thick, graying brows as he scanned the room for any employee thick enough to believe that tripe. Finding nothing but annoyed stares and petulantly crossed arms, he gave a satisfied grunt and turned back to his script.

“To accommodate the upcoming influx of talented individuals, we will be rearranging the office space and seating arrangements.” Even though they knew it was coming, the gathered group let up a chorus of groans and complaints. Robards’ eyes flicked up once again, his icy glare quelling the mob.

“The following individuals will be paired in offices: Potter and Weasley, Zabini and Oakes, Granger and Malfoy. Sharing cubicles will be O’Riordan and Murphy, Hargrove and Cha, Nafus and van Gog. We are confident,” Robards continued, voice raised over the renewed mutters and traded glares from those unhappy with their assignments, “that these changes will result in beneficial outcomes including, but not limited to, forming close relationships with your colleagues, strengthening intradepartmental communication, fostering a community of” - Robards’ expression twisted into one of distaste - “ _psychological safety_ , and creating value-add synergy.”

He tossed the scroll away. It burst into flame as soon as it left his fingers, and flakes of char and ash drifted to land on his scuffed dragon hide boots. “Questions?” He swept the room with a final, hard gaze, as if daring people to answer in the affirmative; no one did. “Good. New seating assignments are on your old desks. Move your effects and get back to work.”

The crowd dispersed, but only some did so with the intention of following Robards’ orders. Blaise Zabini, for instance, followed Draco Malfoy back to his old office, number 237. It was prime real estate at the back of the workspace, away from loo and kitchenette traffic, adjacent to a charmed window, and the furthest point from both Weasley and Potter. Blaise detoured to his own desk and picked up his new seating assignment on the way.

He caught up with Draco just in time to see the man collapse into his chair, an unreadable expression playing over the sharp features of his face. Blaise leaned a hip on his desk. He turned the sealed assignment over in his fingers and searched the office for his very attractive new seatmate, June Oakes. Instead, he saw Hermione Granger staring in their direction. Her curly hair was pulled back in a tidy bun, and a frustrated little moue pulled at the corners of her mouth.

Blaise gave Draco a side-eyed glance; he, too, had seen Granger, and was staring so intently that Blaise was momentarily afraid the girl might burst into fire.

“Could be worse,” Blaise noted with a raised eyebrow and half a grin.

The comment seemed to wake Draco, who sat up and spun toward his desk. With a few sharp gestures of his wand, he transfigured a blank piece of parchment into a box with uneven sides and very pointy corners.

“ _Could be worse_ ,” Draco mocked.

Blaise heaved a sigh and let his head fall back, giving the ceiling a long-suffering look. He immediately regretted the comment.

“Could be worse,” Draco continued, “in that it could be _Weasley_ with whom I’m paired. Could be worse, in that I don’t have a position at all. Could be worse, in that I could work for a well-run business-”

“Like the one your father offered you and you refused?” Blaise remarked to the off-white tiles.

“-instead of a moderately functional government. If Robards had even a _shred_ of sense about avoiding personnel conflict, he would’ve assigned you and me to an office and left Granger to deal with… with -”

“Art Nafus?” Blaise suggested.

Draco scowled at the name and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Art-fucking-Nafus,” he muttered in what Blaise thought was a half-hearted way. “Let him deal with Granger’s moronic friends, insufferable need to be right all the time, sensible shoes, and stupid hair.”

Blaise grinned and said lightly, “Methinks the Slytherin doth protest too much.”

Draco turned his scowl to his friend. “Methinks I have _reason_ to protest.”

“Oh please. You and Granger have been making eyes at each other for weeks. Stir the potion or get out of the lab, mate.”

Draco frowned. “As if you and Oakes haven’t been doing the same dance.”

Blaise’s grin turned predatory, and he once again searched the office, eyes coming to rest when he spotted his buxom, blonde seatmate packing up her paperwork. She looked up and, when she noticed him staring, smiled. Her blue eyes sparkled from behind her square-rimmed glasses. Blaise returned her smile and, though it was difficult to tell from across the office, he thought she blushed. “June and I are experienced adults,” he said, “unlike you two, who can’t seem to get over a silly childhood grudge.”

“I think you’re underselling our history a bit,” Draco groused, but he didn’t deny the point. He nodded to the parchment. “Where’s your new seat?”

Blaise slid a finger beneath the seal and barked a laugh. He tossed it onto Draco’s desk so his friend could read the number for himself: 237.

“I expect everything moved in one hour,” Blaise announced as he sauntered away. “And do give it a wipe down, won’t you?”

Draco scowled at his friend’s retreating back, then aimed carefully. With a small twist of his wrist, the word “Prat” appeared in gold sequins across Blaise’s shoulder blades. And he hoped very much that Blaise liked that shirt, as, with an extra jab, a permanent sticking charm sealed his handiwork.

Mischief thus managed, Draco turned back to the onerous task of packing up his office. His thoughts, however, were not entirely focused on the task. He couldn’t help but think of his new office-mate.

He hadn’t been lying when he’d listed off Hermione’s negative qualities to Blaise; he honestly found fault in each of them. However, he had failed to mention their redeeming features. Her hair, while unmanageable most days, couldn’t detract from her evolutionarily lovely face, symmetrical and freckled, with whiskey eyes and pink lips that made him think thoughts inappropriate for the workplace. No better was the temptation to take a handful of that hair and pull it ever so slightly as he bent her over a desk and whispered, in minute detail, what he would like to do to her. Her shoes - invariably flats in black, brown, blue, or grey - were an indelible part of that fantasy. He would remove those first and journey north to her business-casual trousers and Oxford shirt, making liberal use of his teeth. Her intelligence could be both intimidating and grating, but how much of that was due to his own insecurity about not being the smartest person in the room and how much of it was due to her actually being obnoxious? Probably fifty-fifty, maybe forty-sixty. Regardless, he had been with quiet women and was convinced that one with a wit and a vocabulary like Hermione’s would make for exciting conversation inside _and_ outside the bedroom.

There was no true palliative measure for her choice of bosom friends. However, her actual bosom, which was quite choice indeed, helped.

Overall, there was much to look forward to in sharing a space with Hermione for forty hours a week. He wouldn’t have traded that wanker Art-fucking-Nafus for all the Galleons in Gringotts.

~*~*~

He arrived at their shared office first. It was markedly smaller than his previous one, subject to frequent foot traffic due to its proximity to the kitchenette, and did not have a charmed window. He edged between the desks, noting the height to be perfectly crotch-level for him, and took the one on the left. Hermione arrived a few minutes later. Their gazes locked as she stopped at the door, and for a moment, Draco felt as though all of the air had been removed from the room. Her eyes were bright, and Draco wished, not for the first time, he had paid as much time to Legilimency as he had Occlumency. To him, Hermione looked excited, and it brought him to his feet.

The collision of his chair with the wall broke whatever magic had been kindling between them. Draco cleared his throat as Hermione looked away from him and about their new office. She frowned.

“This is smaller than my old one,” she remarked.

“Mine, too. And no window.”

They shared a commiserating glance, and Draco retook his seat just in time to watch Hermione edge between the desks. She performed the maneuver just as he had, with her front facing her desk and her rear facing his. He smiled as she passed, but managed to school his expression into benign neutrality before she turned to sit.

They unpacked in companionable silence and worked in the same until just before noon, when Weasley came to fetch her for lunch.

“Rotten luck, being seated with this rodent,” the ginger git said loudly. “You should talk to Robards about getting a transfer.”

“Ron.” Hermione’s tone was heavy with warning, which her friend ignored.

“I’m sure Nafus would trade. He _hates_ van Gog.”

“Enough about Nafus,” Draco muttered, earning raised eyebrows from Hermione and a satisfied grin from Weasley. “And bugger off, won’t you? Everyone knows you shoved your nose up Robards’ arse to get your office assignment, not to mention your missions -”

“ _Malfoy_!”

He ignored Hermione’s reprimand. “But I prefer to _earn_ my rewards.”

It was not his best work. In fact, it was patently false. But it did the trick. Weasley’s ears reddened.

“Robards gives work to the agents he trusts to get it done,” Weasley said, his tone brittle.

“Between you and Potter, whom do you think Robards trusts more? The Boy Who Lived, or the Boy Whose Only Remarkable Attribute Is Having a Famous Friend or Two?”

Weasley lurched towards his desk. Draco launched to his feet, the chair once more crashing against the wall with the sound of a shot. Hermione sidled between them and grabbed Ron’s arm before they could do more than exchange threatening glares.

“We’re going to lunch now,” she announced. With a shove, she forced Ron from the office and punctuated her own exit by kicking the door closed.

Draco leaned forward on his desk and sighed, staring at the door. He knew at least one thing he wanted from Hermione. He also knew that he’d never get it if their rodent problem continued. Something had to be done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 Draco came to a very grim conclusion over the weekend: he would have to make a go of being civil to Weasley. Hermione, for reasons Draco would probably never understand, valued the ginger. If over a decade of friendship and a failed romance wasn’t enough to convince her of her error, he doubted anything ever could. He added it to her list of faults.

But Draco had his personal pride to consider. He’d spent most of his life detesting Weasley and building himself a reputation as a snarky, yet irresistible rogue. Could he be an irresistible rogue without the snark? Did he _want_ to be? And if he did, was she worth it? And _if_ she was worth it, was it too late for him to pivot?

Probably, but if untucking Hermione’s Oxford shirt was the ultimate goal, he’d have to try. He would have to limit his snark to once a day, preferably when Hermione was out of earshot. He wouldn’t seek out confrontation with the man, but would capitalize upon the opportunity if it arose. He would meter his insults, keeping them abrasive enough to earn a dirty look but mundane enough to prevent an office war.

And since Hermione was a careful woman – which he couldn’t hold against her, considering their history – he wouldn’t be able to persuade her into a romantic encounter solely on the merits of physical pleasure. He would have to be the perfect gentleman and attract her the old-fashioned way. He would make polite conversation and offer to grab her a cuppa whenever he got one for himself. Maybe he’d buy her breakfast unexpectedly. He would definitely ask her to proofread one or two of his reports (though only after going through them three times to ensure they were error free) so that he could amaze her with his brilliant analysis and commitment to quality work. Over time – probably a week, maybe two – she would be so charmed by him that he could ask her out to dinner with no chance of rejection.

So, as Monday morning dawned, Draco was fully prepared to impress the literal pants off Hermione Granger.

As Wednesday afternoon waned, Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to ever see her again.

It started innocuously enough: a faint, but noticeable funk in their office after lunch, like unwashed sheets or old vegetables moldering in the bin. It lingered for about thirty minutes before dissipating completely, and was so subtle that, by the end of the day, Draco was sure he had imagined it entirely.

Tuesday dispelled that notion as Hermione’s reappearance from lunch brought with it the smell of fishy halitosis and a powerful sense memory: the fading, bitter taste of cheap gin, an all-over body ache, and the scent-and-sight combo of vomit crusted over grey carpet. His stomach churned, and he clenched his teeth against the possibility of a repeat performance. Needlessly, his eyes flicked to the clock; it was nearing thirteen hundred hours. Just after lunch. Just like yesterday.

Hermione’s head stayed determinately bent. He could see her eyes moving across the parchment, so whatever this morning-breath malfeasance was, it did not bother her. His eyes widened at a thought that he could hardly stand to entertain: could it be _her_?

Could Hermione be passing gas in their tiny, shared, and - most significantly - _unventilated_ office?

He scoffed at the idea. Surely not. She would never. Such an act would flout every British sense of propriety and manners. And it was _Hermione_. The woman was so stubborn that she would probably hold it in until she exploded from the pent-up pressure. It couldn’t be her.

Another wave of seafood-stank wafted over him, and Draco hunched down in his chair.

It couldn’t be her, unless it _was_.

Near fifteen hundred hours, her iron maiden of a bladder forced her to leave. Draco counted out thirty seconds, then sprang into motion. He crossed the office in two steps and, though he wasn’t proud of it and would, in fact, do his damnedest to forget he’d ever done it at all, crouched beside her rubbish bin. Using his wand, he levitated the detritus this way and that, uncovering scrap parchment, quill nibs, and a banana peel from yesterday. He found nothing incriminating - no old fish carcass or fuzz-coated dentures - but gave the bin a good sniff anyway, just to be sure.

He looked askance at the chair and, with a grimace, set his nose to the task. The chair’s back smelled like corporate mundanity with the hint of vanilla. He steeled himself for the seat next, but it smelled much like the back, save for an interesting feminine musk he’d like to have spent more time exploring.

But she couldn’t stay in the loo forever, and he preferred not to explain why he was kneeling over her chair and breathing heavily. Besides, there was no trace of the stench. Hermione returned from the loo, smelling of soap, and Draco couldn’t equate the rotten smell of mere hours ago with the clean, well-composed woman sitting across from him.

Or, loath as he was to admit it, maybe all the romantic advice columns in _Witch Weekly_ were right. Maybe a person’s outer appearance was a poor indication of what they kept inside, because Hermione, as attractive as she might be, apparently housed some absolutely wretched indoor plumbing. He spent thirty minutes of Wednesday afternoon gagging on the stench of putrid curry, which even she didn’t seem able to ignore.

Draco sat across from her, arms crossed, eyes glaring. “Enjoy your lunch today, Granger?” he asked, tone venomous. “Indulge in some chicken tikka masala, did you?”

“Paneer,” she answered weakly, her head firmly cradled in both hands, elbows on her desk.

“That was my second guess.”

Her cheeks flushed scarlet. “Draco…”

“Save it,” he answered. “I’m going to get some air.”

They did not speak again until Thursday afternoon, when Hermione’s bowels treated them to what Draco had previously considered a biological impossibility. He didn’t know what digestive mechanism could result in flatulence that smelled of cat piss, but there it was, pervading every corner of their office, making his eyes water and wilting his potted plant.

Neither of them bothered feigning work.

“This is getting out of hand,” Hermione said, her voice carrying a composure that Draco couldn’t replicate.

“It was out of hand on curry day,” he shot back.

She ignored him and opened the top drawer of her desk, withdrawing a stack of brightly colored pamphlets and a small vial. “I’m concerned for your health, so I went to St. Mungo’s and picked up some literature you might find helpful,” she continued, stepping across the office and handing them over: _When Farts Aren’t Funny, A Retrospective_ ; _Bowel Buddies: How to Make Peace with Your Colon_ ; _Scatomancy: What Your Poo Says About You_. The vial was labeled “Poot Preventor.”

His jaw dropped.

“Normally, I wouldn’t interfere,” she continued, “but this is affecting our work, and I wanted to address it with you before approaching Being Resources about a desk relocation.”

“You think this is _me_?” he asked, incredulous and inadvertently loud.

She took a deep breath, then closed the door with what looked like a supreme amount of willpower and regret. “I understand this is an embarrassing topic, but denying it is only going to make it worse. The Healer recommended the Poot Preventor as a short-term solution, but I think you need to accept this and seek treatment as soon as you can. I promise not to say anything. This will stay between us.”

“Granger,” he said in a measured voice, standing and leaning forward on his desk. “You need to listen to me. I am not the one farting. _You_ are.”

Her eyes widened. “ _Me_?”

“ _Yes_. It starts five to ten minutes after you come back from lunch with Potter and Weasley.” He picked up a scrap of parchment and handed it over to her. “I’ve timed it.”

“You _timed_ it?” she repeated.

“I certainly can’t focus on anything else.”

“But it’s not me!”

“Of course not,” he said with a scoff. “It’s just coincidence that, on the day you go for Indian food, our office smells of poorly-digested curry for thirty minutes. And what did you eat on Tuesday? An entire tin of anchovies? I don’t even _want_ to know what was on today’s menu.”

“It was coincidence,” she said, her cheeks flushing red. “It wasn’t me. I would never… I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t do that to anyone!”

“We’re the only two in this office, Granger. If it’s not you, and it’s not me, then who the bloody hell is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s convenient.”

Her lips thinned into a hard line. “If you don’t want to believe me, then fine. Let’s do an experiment. Tomorrow morning, let’s meet for breakfast and do lunch in the office. And then we’ll see who the culprit is.”

“Fine,” he agreed with a snarl. “Café Boulangerie at eight?”

“It’s a date,” she answered with equivalent irritation. With a final, huffy breath, she stormed out of the office, leaving the door blessedly open in her wake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

 Hermione arrived at the café precisely on time, which annoyed Draco. It was raining - no surprise - and he had stood in it for five minutes waiting for her. He hadn’t needed to; the café had a wide awning and indoor seating, either of which he could have used. But waiting in the rain cut a far more pathetic figure, and he was naturally inclined to be as petulant as possible before his morning tea.

His mood soured further as Hermione greeted him with a smile and a chipper “Good morning!” It must have shown on his face, for her sunny expression faltered. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”

“Five minutes.”

She furrowed her brow. “Why didn’t you wait inside?”

He elected not to answer. “Are we going to do this or not?”

“Of course,” she said, stepping in front of him and opening the door herself before he could get to it. He decided then that, just as he was inclined to be petulant, she was inclined to be infuriatingly independent. If he wasn’t careful, she might even try to pay.

Fortunately, she ordered first, so he was able to pick up the cheque for their croissants, tea (for him), and café au lait (for her).

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, tucking a curly strand of hair behind her ear as they took a seat by the window.

“You said it was a date,” he pointed out, as if that settled the matter.

Her cheeks turned light pink, and she wrapped her hands around her cup. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

“And you’ll see after today that -”

She waved away his remark. “Let’s not discuss that right now,” she interrupted.

He took a sip of tea and immediately felt more human. “Very well. What would you prefer to discuss?”

Her brown eyes shone over the rim of her mug. “Are Blaise and June an item?”

Draco grinned, and before he knew it, a very pleasant fifteen minutes had elapsed. Cups and plates emptied, Draco rose. “Shall we?”

“If we must,” she replied, much to his satisfaction. He helped her into her raincloak, opened the door for her, and offered her his arm for the brief walk to a nearby alleyway. They Apparated into the Ministry’s Atrium separately, and Draco had to squelch the desire to offer his arm to her once more.

“I really enjoyed this morning,” she said as they walked to the lifts side by side. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“My pleasure,” he replied. “Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

The lift door clanged shut before rocketing them to Level Two. “Maybe,” she said with a small smile as the door opened.

When she walked away from him, Draco had almost forgotten why they had arranged the date in the first place. But seeing their tiny office brought it all back: Hermione had flatus that could wither plants, and today would prove it. He sighed as he sat, wondering if it was in fact better to live in ignorant bliss.

The morning passed with no suspicious smells, and Draco faced noon with a growing dread. Weasley arrived on time, as usual.

“Almost ready to go, Hermione?”

“I’m swamped today,” she answered. She sold the lie well, not even looking up from her parchment to do so. “I’m going to skip. Would you let Harry know?”

Ron frowned a little, then leaned half his body out of the office to shout “Oi, Harry! Hermione’s not coming to lunch!” down the hall.

“Circe’s tits, Weasley,” said Draco. “Must you disturb the entire office with that newsflash?”

“No,” he countered, leaning back into the office. “Just you.” He thumped the doorjamb with his palm. “Talk to you later, Hermione.”

“See you,” she said with a distracted wave. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

“Well done,” Draco said once the door had clicked shut. “It’s like you’ve been lying to him for ages.”

Her cheeks pinked as she set down her quill. “It wasn’t a lie - I _am_ busy today.”

“Yes, busy with _me_ ,” he appended with a smug smile.

She gave another dismissive wave, but there was no mistaking her grin. “The details of what I’m busy with are of little importance.”

Draco heard the silent, “ _To him_ ,” but in a fit of tact, decided not to remark on it. Instead, he changed the subject.

“What’s for lunch today?”

Hermione opened her desk’s bottom drawer and pulled out a small, insulated bag. “I packed a turkey sandwich with an apple, carrots, and a bag of crisps. It’s exactly what I had on Tuesday. You?”

“Spinach salad with chicken,” he said, setting the container on his desk. “To your health, Granger,” he said with a nod.

She grinned at him and lifted her sandwich toward him in an analogous toast. “To yours, Malfoy.”

Thirty minutes later, Draco threw down his quill in disgust, splattering ink across his blotter.

“Really, Granger? _Limburger_? How much cheese was on that sandwich?”

“None!” she said, gagging over the distinctive, sweaty-socks stench. “Sweet Merlin, open the door!”

“Gladly!” He nearly vaulted his desk in the effort to escape their office. Hermione hurled herself out after him, colliding with his back.

“I can’t believe you.” He kept his voice low, but made sure to suffuse it with all the betrayal he could muster.

“If you believe that smell came from _me_ , then you’re more ignorant of human biology than Ron,” she snapped. A second later, she froze, her eyes wide in sudden realization. “ _Ron_ …”

She ran her fingers over their doorjamb, then and with a deep breath – and an impressive amount of courage – darted into the putrid fog. She reappeared with their raincloaks. She shoved Draco’s into his arms, giving him a hard look as she shrugged on her own.

“Let’s go.”

He didn’t bother asking where; he thought he knew. They marched down to the Atrium, and he stood back as she threw Floo powder into a hearth the size of a hippogriff. She stepped in first and reached a hand out toward him, curly hair swirling in the rushing flames. Draco took it, and she pulled him close, shouting “Diagon Alley!” as she did. Draco clamped an arm around her waist, tucked his head down into her shoulder, and braced himself as they spun through the network.

They landed hard and stepped from one of Diagon’s many communal Floos into the bustle of the Alley proper. Draco’s arm lingered perhaps a moment too long around Hermione’s waist, as evidenced by her raised brows and expectant look. He released her, and she was off at once, weaving her way briskly through the crowds. Draco lost her a few times, but they could only have one destination, a neon purple pillar amongst a wall of dark brown and grey.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

“That interfering little rodent,” Draco snarled beneath his breath when he caught up with Hermione at the shop’s door.

“We don’t know for sure yet,” she said, clearly trying – and mostly failing – to maintain her veneer of rational calm.

“I’m going to hex him into next year for this.”

“Hush. And stop scowling. We’re here for a discussion, not a shake-down.”

“Speak for yourself,” he muttered.

She gave him a gimlet eye, and entered the shop.

The shop suffered from its characteristic crowds, witches and wizards of all age looking to cause a little mayhem. Draco placed a hand on her waist so as not to lose her in the crowd as she headed toward the back of the shop. She nodded to the good-looking woman running the till and pushed her way through a set of thick, purple curtains to the shop’s rear.

Draco craned his neck at the stacks of inventory that climbed from floor to ceiling, each pristinely labeled and organized.

“George?” Hermione called.

The one-eared ginger popped into view from the balcony. He wore a heavy apron with matching, elbow-length gloves and thick goggles.

“Hermione!” he said jovially. “Skiving off work! I knew you’d come ‘round to our business model.”

“Hardly,” she replied. “I need to talk to you.”

“Right-o. Give me a moment.” George vanished into the same room from which he’d come, and when he reappeared, it was without the protective equipment. He slid down a rickety-looking ladder and swept Hermione into a hug.

“Ready for a career change?” he asked, holding her at arm’s length. “Ministry driving you nuts?”

“Something like that. We have a couple of questions for you.”

George’s warm expression vanished as he turned to Draco.

“He giving you trouble?” George asked, his broad shoulders visibly tensing.

Draco scoffed. “Hardly. And I think Granger can handle herself, Weasley. No need for a knight in fuchsia armor to come galloping to her rescue.”

“Let’s stay on topic,” Hermione cut in levelly. “We need to know if you’re working on anything new, George.”

“Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes is known for its new products,” George answered, relaxing as he turned away from Draco. “It’s safe to assume my pipeline is full.”

“Specifically, then. We need to know if you’re working on anything associated with smells. Er…” She shared a look with Draco. “ _Bad_ smells.”

George looked between them, a slow smile spreading across his face. “So he’s testing them on you, is he?” he asked with a chuckle. “I said they would get him in trouble.” George whirled in place, his fluorescent pink robes flaring out around him in what Draco thought was an ostentatious and unnecessary bit of showmanship.

Unnecessary, but effective. George ended his twirl with his arm outstretched, five small boxes arranged in a pyramidal stack upon his palm. Each was a different, revolting color: brownish olive green, graying puce, rusty brown-orange, sickly mustard yellow, and green-tinged beige.

“One of my newer products, still in testing,” George explained as Draco plucked the beige-green box from the top of the stack. Two clear beads of opalescent liquid, each about as big as a woman’s stud earring, were suspended within. He dipped a finger in to scoop one up, but paused when George let out a tense breath from between his teeth.

“Careful with that.”

“What is it?”

“The Barking Spider.” Draco lifted an eyebrow. “The Pocket Frog. The Silent Fury. S.B.D. I’m still working on the marketing.”

“S.B.D.?”

George turned to Hermione with a wink. “Silent But Deadly. It’s my version of a Stink Pellet, but for those merrymakers with an eye for espionage. It’s a delayed release formulation, so you can escape before the odor hits. The formula won’t stick to skin, but will stick to other surfaces, like your least favorite professor’s desk or the shirt of a good-humored friend. Non-toxic, non-staining, and guaranteed to irritate. The odors range from annoying” – he nodded at the brown-green box in Hermione’s hand, which reminded Draco of rotting broccoli – “to downright disgusting.” His eyes shifted to the box, still open, in Draco’s hands.

“Limburger?” he guessed.

“Quite. Angelina was not pleased with the development of that one, though it did lead to some excellent bath time fun,” he finished with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Draco frowned at him on principle, though the idea wasn’t unappealing: Angelina Weasley was, after all, quite a fit Chaser.

“Say,” George said, plucking a clipboard off a side table. “If you both have a few minutes, perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing your thoughts?”

“Unlikely,” Draco said sourly, snapping the box’s lid shut. “I’m going to drop both of these into Weasley’s office as soon as we get back.”

“Though I love seeing my misguided little brother pranked as much as the next bloke, I’d advise against that...”

Hermione, who had been staring at the box she held with a distant expression, came back to the conversation. She leveled a sharp look at George. “Why?”

“Well, there’s no harm in using one, but the – ah – _overzealous consumer_ may find himself passed out on the floor for a few hours with no memory of the previous day.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose, and George held his hands up in defense. “There’s a reason they haven’t gone to market yet! Besides, if it’s revenge you’re looking for, I’ve got just the thing: a new product from our Edibles line that Ron hasn’t seen yet.”

Draco straightened his shoulders, and a sparkle entered George’s eyes. “Ah, but you said you didn’t have the time.”

“We’ll give you feedback,” Draco said quickly. “An even trade.”

George leaned back against his workbench, clipboard held at his side, and smiled widely. “Excellent! What do you say, Hermione?”

“We’ll do no such thing.”

Draco took a step toward her. “We _won’t_?” he hissed, incredulous.

“You aided and abetted him, George,” Hermione continued, ignoring Draco’s exasperated groan.

“ _I_ didn’t know how he’d use them.”

“Plausible deniability may work with the Wizengamot, but I’ve known you for too long. We’ll plot our own revenge.”

Without another word, she spun on her heel and started toward the front of the shop. Draco looked back to the Weasley brother, who shrugged and set down his clipboard, recognizing the lost cause. “Had to try.”

Draco pocketed his green-beige box and the olive one Hermione had been holding. “For my troubles,” Draco explained.

George sighed and waved him away. “Just tell people where you got them.”

“Of course,” Draco lied. He took his leave, then, navigating toward the front of the store and depositing one of the Limburger beads onto a shelf on the way.

He met Hermione outside. She stood beneath the store’s awning with her arms crossed and her chin raised. Her eyes were focused on the gray sky.

“I can’t believe he’d do that to me,” she seethed. “Embarrass me like that, in front of you, when he knows -”

She broke off, clenching her jaw shut. Draco hid a smile. Ron knew, and Blaise knew, and now, because she’d said too much, Draco knew, too.

“Weasley’s never been above petty revenge,” he remarked lightly.

She gave him a pointed look. “And you have?”

“My revenge isn’t petty; it’s sweet and well-planned.”

“Oh?” She turned to face him fully, a grin playing over the curves of her mouth. “And what do you think is a fitting punishment for this most recent crime?”

“Something sweet, certainly,” he said, curling an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “But let’s discuss it over dinner. Your choice.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but didn’t pull away. “Why can’t we discuss it here?”

Draco grinned. “Because we need to leave before Weasley discovers what I’ve done to his shop.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Draco tapped his quill and stared at the clock. Just ten more minutes to wait.

He looked across the office at Hermione, who possessed far more sangfroid than Draco had ever credited her for. While he had been fidgeting and throwing her heated glances all morning, she had been calm and focused, writing and filing and reading like it was an ordinary morning following an ordinary night.

“Hermione.”

“Settle down,” she said.

“Why not start early?”

“Because we wasted yesterday afternoon,” she replied, flipping through the book to her left, “and it put me behind.”

“I wouldn’t say it was _wasted_ ,” he groused.

“No,” she amended, at last looking up from her paperwork long enough to smile at him. “You’re right. It wasn’t wasted.” A warm feeling spread through Draco’s chest. “But it still put me behind.”

She bent back to her work, and Draco grinned up at the clock.

Eight minutes. That wasn’t so long.

An eternity later, a minute had passed.

Draco withdrew a piece of parchment and, with a series of complicated wand movements, charmed it into the shape of an Antipodean Opaleye. He sent it flying to her desk, where it made two laps around Hermione’s head.

“Draco.”

The dragon settled onto her shoulder, where its paper fangs began worrying at her hair.

She sighed, sheathed her quill, and scooped the paper dragon off her shoulder. It stood proudly upon her palm and blasted an impressive jet of shredded parchment onto her wrist.

“Really?” she asked rhetorically, shooting Draco a half-amused, half-exasperated look.

“It has a mind of its own.”

“I think I know exactly whose mind it has,” she deadpanned, setting the dragon onto her desk. They watched it strut around, looking very much at home amongst her other personal effects. Draco looked at the clock again. Five minutes.

“Have you accomplished _anything_ this morning?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s snoozing by your inkpot.”

She sighed and stood, straightening her blouse (pale blue) and smoothing her skirt (dark grey and delectably snug).

Draco stood as well, trying not to look too eager as he assumed his position between their desks. He sat on the edge of his desk and leaned back on his arms, giving his hair a roguish toss.

“Do you need another moment to preen?” she asked with a quirked eyebrow, settling into a similar position across from him.

“No,” he answered. “You?”

She fidgeted. “No, I only wonder… Are you sure about this?”

He smiled and reached toward her. Hermione took his hand and allowed him to pull her into the space between his legs.

“I was sure about this _before_ Weasley interfered,” he whispered. With that, he bent his head and captured her lips in a deep, astonishingly perfect kiss.

Some part of him knew when Weasley entered. He heard the horrified gasp, could almost feel the murderous stare, but those sensations were entirely secondary to the feel of Hermione in his arms. Regardless, they had discussed this very moment the night before. Had rehearsed it, upon Draco’s suggestion, to ensure that he wasn’t so overwhelmed that he forgot his part.

And practice did, indeed, make perfect. Without breaking form, Draco lifted his hand and made a shooing motion at the ginger interruption.

In response, Weasley let loose a string of expletives and slammed the door.

Hermione broke this kiss, resting her forehead against his.

“Sweet revenge?” Draco asked her.

She laughed and opened her eyes, which sparkled as they met his own.

“Better than that,” she said. “Silent, but deadly.”

 

**The End**


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